


Supernova

by JunebugSong



Category: South Park
Genre: Alternate Universe, Death, He has no social skills, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Self harm (implied), also featuring useless homosexual craig, inspired by the book They Both Die at the End, let us applaud him, read it, read it now
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-01-05
Updated: 2018-02-13
Packaged: 2019-02-28 20:51:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 4
Words: 20,513
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13279656
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JunebugSong/pseuds/JunebugSong
Summary: supernova;an astronomical event that occurs during the last stages of a star's life, whose dramatic and catastrophic destruction is marked by one final titanic explosion.--There's something harrowing about knowing that you're going to die in less than twenty-four hours-- of knowing that you've now missed out on everything you've ever wanted to do, all of the people you could have known, that everything you've worked for has now lost its meaning. Few are more familiar with this feeling than Craig Tucker and Tweek Tweak, two residents of South Park, Colorado, who have both just received the fateful notification that this is their last day on Earth.Drawn together by an app that allows similar dead kids walking to meet up and find meaning in their last day, Craig and Tweek are thrown into the frantic speed of living their last moments, and they're determined to last it out until the end and accomplish whatever they can before their time is up. Of course, no one accounted for the ways of the heart-- and that may just obliterate the whole equation.





	1. On the Stage of Collapse

**Author's Note:**

> Ah, I cannot resist the tragedy of life and death.
> 
> Anyways, hello-- I have never written (and published) a fanfic in my life, this is my first take on a multi-chaptered fic as well, and this basically is the most paranoid I've ever felt about posting my own creations online. Bear with me and know that I am so sorry-- but I do hope you manage to enjoy this! I shan't talk your ear off. Happy reading~!

It was precisely one minute and thirteen seconds past midnight when the notification chimed in.

The inky, encapsulating shadows of night whispered beyond shoddily-covered glass, pale tendrils of moonlight peeking through nigh-translucent curtains, casting a milky crescent of light across an otherwise dusky room. A patchwork of glow-in-the-dark stars mimicked constellations on the ceiling, a weak yet steady light emanating from plastic edges, serving as luminous little sigils in the shadows of his bedroom. But other than the feigned constellations of his ceiling and the timid stretch of moonbeams, the only other light was the restrained blueish beacon of a television screen, lit up with the colors of a digitalized world.

The insulation of a headset shielded all sound from filling the area, the silence only briefly cracked by the _click_ of moving joysticks and flicked buttons, the repetition of pulling the triggers inward crafting some odd and quiet rhythm to underlie the stillness. There was almost something tranquil about that pretty period of silence—

“Clyde, get your ass back here and, y'know, _tank_.”

—until it was broken, that is, not only by Craig’s interjection, but by an unfamiliar and cryptic chime.

“ _Sorry!_ I’m just trying to get to the point first!” Clyde’s voice, exasperation teeming through his every word, buzzed in Craig’s ears, the volume of his whining only amplified by the headset. This was a given scenario, of course— every time the four of them went online for a game of Overwatch together, Clyde refused to play anyone other than Reinhardt. This wouldn’t be a problem if he didn’t throw caution to the wind and take one too many tips from a certain Leeroy Jenkins. But that’s just how Clyde was— motivated by his impulses and guided by his feelings. “Careful” was not a word within his vernacular, and strategy was certainly no companion of his. 

Was it irritating? Yes. Did it make Craig want to walk down the street and strangle his best friend with the cord of his own Xbox? _Fuck_ yes. And yet, they continued to play— Craig hanging back with Token and Jimmy, trying to emulate some semblance of strategy, and Clyde charging right back into the fictionalized fray without a second thought. Perhaps that was just how friendship worked, staying what might have been murderous hands—

Otherwise, Clyde would probably have been six feet under a long time ago.

“Getting to the point first doesn’t mean shit if you’re dead,” Craig said, and it took all of his effort to hold back a sigh. And still, he ignored the unusual sounds emanating from his phone, launching himself right back into a grapple for the objective. It wasn’t until a few seconds later that the unusual bout of silence filling up the space typically domineered by aggressive shouting and verbal bursts of excitement even really registered with him. Had it not been for the quiet sound of breathing on the other ends of the voice chat, Craig would already be fiddling with the volume sliders and readjusting his headset.

“Craig,” Token’s voice sounded to break the silence, perfect clarity accentuating every syllable as usual. That was a plus of being overly wealthy— microphones that actually functioned and functioned well. “What was that sound over on your end?”

“Phone notification,” Craig said back, not removing his focus from the scenes unfolding on his screen. He furrowed his brow as he watched the scarlet bar in the northern center of his screen override cyan, a clear indicator of the fact that they were now on the verge of losing— yet again. Out of all eleven of the matches they’d been assigned, they’d won precisely three: one of which had simply been seized by dumb luck. “Guys, can you get on the point and focus on the game? Clyde, are you reading fucking Playboy instead of playing the game again? I swear to god—“

“That wasn’t your usual notification sound,” Token interjected, though his voice remained as steady and cautious as always. “You always use the default one because you don’t feel like changing it.”

“Y-yea, Craig, it is a little st-stra— odd,” Jimmy added. “Maybe it’s s-something important? I’ve never heard th-that kind before.”

“I have,” Clyde said, his voice suddenly devoid of all the frustration that had previously speared through his every word. His tone was now hollow and restrained, almost seeming _small_ — a trait that could never be associated with him in the least. Emotion was one of Clyde’s closest compatriots: he cried when sorrow grew too vast to shoulder, he laughed whenever he found something humorous, even if the timing was inappropriate, he yelled when he was angry. That was just how Clyde was. He was in touch with his feelings in a way none of his friends could replicate—

And though he’d never admit it, there was something about all of the inflection dissipating from his overemotional best friend’s voice that sent an icy shard of anxiety climbing up Craig’s spine.

“Dude, are you okay?” Craig asked, the match forgotten. It was likely not going to be long before the four were booted for inactivity, and their other two teammates were doubtlessly appalled by their abandonment, but Craig couldn’t have cared less. He may not have been so adept with the more sentimental fields of friendship, but he wasn’t heartless, and he sure as hell wasn't going to ignore what would doubtlessly unfold into an emotional breakdown in favor of focusing on a video game. _That_ would be a dick move.

He could practically hear Clyde’s hesitation, the nervous repositioning and adjustment of his headset, an evident endeavor to stall for a few more moments of disconcerting silence. He wasn’t waltzing around the topic, he was trying to evade it entirely: as to why, he was unsure. But before Craig could open his mouth and tell him to just spit it out—

“My mom got the same notification the day she died.”

And that was when everything went silent.

Humanity had gained the capacity to predict the day of someone’s death long before Craig was born, although only a select few were aware of exactly _how_ \-- which was probably for the better, considering how easily the means could fall into misuse. The circumstances were never clarified, nor was the precise time, but the precise day was always established. In order to take advantage of that newfound capacity to predict death’s descent, some group of geniuses devised a notification system that sent out messages around midnight of a person’s given death day, and subsequently encouraged them to live out their last twenty four or less hours however they chose. It was a widely praised system that was difficult to replicate, as the notification defied all “do not disturb” or mute settings, with a distinct sound associated with it.

Sometime back in the seventh grade, Eric Cartman had tried to mimic the notification with a shoddy recording— doubtlessly to bank off of people’s panic and profit off that near-death nonchalance. How he’d even gotten the sound clip, no one could really be sure. He had forgotten that one integral factor, though, and it had luckily prevented him from doing any lasting damage. He had scared the hell out of Clyde with it, if only for a few seconds before Craig brought up the fact that the notification always came at midnight.

Still, that was the only memory Craig needed to realize that this was no prank.

“Craig? Are you still there?”

Token’s inquiry was tentative and careful, each word spoken like a footstep in a minefield— tactically calculated and performed in order to not ignite the entire span of land. All of the casualness that had filled the group’s conversations for twelve years had evaporated. The jokes at each other’s expenses, the eye rolling and snickering, the frequent jabs at the misfortune that always inevitably descended had all given way to this new reluctance. It was as if suddenly, just because of a brief shock of noise and paranoia, Craig’s skin had turned to glass and he’d become fragile.

The last word anyone could ever use to describe Craig Tucker— the boy who gleamed upon walls of Incan prophecy, who’d put an end to a certain apocalypse regardless of his own willingness to do so, who’d persuaded a shopkeeper to let all four of them purchase legitimate weaponry from Japan— was “fragile.” And still he bit his tongue.

“Yeah, dude, I’m fine,” he said dryly, setting his controller down in favor of reaching for his phone. Sure enough, a new notification— 12:01, Friday, January 10th, 2025 — gleamed underneath the digital clock, blurring out the details of his lock screen. Thumbing over the banner and keeping one finger looming over the home button, the screen soon lit up to Messages, where an unfamiliar, yet official-looking number glowed over the one message he’d never expected.

**[01/10/25 — 12:01]**

_If this message should arrive any later than precisely midnight in your time zone, we offer our most sincere of apologies._

_Craig Tucker, we regret to inform you that sometime within the next twenty-four hours, you will face an uncertain and untimely death. We can not disclose the precise circumstances, nor the exact time— but we encourage you to live each minute like it is your last and enjoy the final day of your life._

_We wish you the best. To quote Eleanor Roosevelt, “The purpose of life, after all, is to live it, to taste experience to the utmost, to reach out eagerly and without fear for newer and richer experience.”_

Short, so clearly scripted, and to the point— the one thing he did anticipate.

“Clyde, dude, did your mom’s notification have a lame Eleanor Roosevelt quote at the end of it?” Craig asked, and the sound of Clyde choking on his own tears was the only answer he needed. “Clyde, I can’t understand you, you need to calm down.” He said even though he didn’t need a verbal affirmation, even though he knew from the incomprehensible crying the answer was definitely ‘yes.’ It all went silent a few seconds later, the only explanation manifesting in the tiny _ping_ that announced Clyde disconnecting.

“Craig, I’m disconnecting, and I’ll be on my way to your house,” Token declared, and the finality in his voice clarified that there would be no debating. And even so, that same little noise followed his statement, and Craig was left with Jimmy.

An unsteady silence loomed behind, the only sound coming from the triumphant background music of the Overwatch home screen. Just as Craig had assumed, the four of them had been kicked from their match— the glorious pixels of Ilios replaced by a nondescript segment of Route 66 and Mercy’s graceful and resolute stance next to a list of options. He could practically envision the “-75% EXP” penalty blaring in the corner of Clyde’s screen, an unfortunate consequence of lackluster internet and the occasional bout of emotion. Craig always ruthlessly taunted him for how far he fell behind in levels, and even though each jab was empty and devoid of ill intent, Clyde would still sock him in the arm.

Somehow, he felt that if he just focused on little moments like those and pretended that everything was still normal, this whole wild scenario would just go away and let him pursue loot boxes in peace. 

“Wow, I’d s-say they’re really d-d- _dying_ to get over to y-your house, but that would be pa-para-paradoxic-al,” Jimmy finally chirped, his voice tripping over the syllables and sharp edges of words, indulging in another bout of his masterful humor— but it felt empty. Every word he spoke seemed forced, his struggles around the letters unmotivated. For once, Jimmy’s own voice seemed like the antithesis to his own personality; and Craig couldn’t say that he liked it. “W-well, I sh-should be on my way too— try not to d-d-die before we g-get there.”

And just like that, Jimmy was gone too: that newfound emptiness in his voice resonating in Craig’s brain like a broken record. 

His eyes loomed on the dim glow of his phone screen, wandering over the words of the message in an endless cycle. Black letters against grey, outlined by a halo of faint light— the sheer monotony doing little to hide the stark truth of the words:

In less than twenty four hours, he was going to die.

Death was inevitable, of course, he’d always known that. Mortality was simply a part of humanity, an unchallengeable factor only the foolish ever sought to conquer. Everyone he knew and beyond would one day see that notification lighting up their phones at twelve in the morning, being told that this midnight would be the last one they would ever see. He knew that one day, some arbitrary part of his own life would be intercepted by that customary _chime_ — he just hadn’t expected it to be today.

He was eighteen years old, not even a full year out of high school— still uncertain of what he was going to do with the life he thought laid ahead of him, still awaiting replies from all of the colleges he’d applied to for when he finished the year he’d taken off from schooling. He was the type of person who spent half of his time trying to beat every unfinished video game stored underneath the television and the other half studying the galaxy whirling above his head. He was someone who’d taken life for granted, and now he only had one day of life left to live.

...and yet, all he could do was shrug. Maybe it was better now than later.

Craig floated in between stages of life, caught somewhere in between teenage years and adulthood— liberated of past connections and yet to forge any new ones. If the notification had to strike at any point in time, this was the best one: before he pursued his ambitions, before he set his hopes anywhere, before he began to make something of his life. Even if it was a little unsatisfactory to be left wondering what could have been, it was better at a time where his biggest challenge was beating Dark Souls instead of a moment spent agonizing over taxes and other financial bullshit.

...Speaking of Dark Souls, perhaps that was a good way to pass the time until Token showed up at his doorstep, a sobbing Clyde and deeply conflicted Jimmy in tow. Flicking the power button and setting his phone to the side, Craig shot straight for the Xbox games piled beside the TV and plucked Dark Souls III from the top.

Around seven minutes into grumbling over his fourth death against Vordt of the Boreal Valley, the doorbell rang and all Craig could do was lament the lack of a pause button. But by the time he’d finally been killed and sent back to the gates, he already heard the door creaking open and the faint whispers of chatter sift in from the doorway. Throwing his controller down, Craig climbed to his feet and started off down the hallway, halfway down the stairs and just able to view the commotion.

His mother stood at the door, a bathrobe hastily wrapped around her and her blonde hair tangled, her confusion evident just by her stance. He could hear his father in the kitchen, rifling through the stacks of mugs in the cabinet, grumbling about how early it was. Token, Clyde, and Jimmy all stood outside, jackets doing little to conceal the fact that they were still in their pajamas. A steady stream of tears cascaded down Clyde’s cheeks, a phenomenon that wasn’t exactly uncommon— but that same dismal look jaded Token and Jimmy’s faces as well, only solidifying the fact that something dire was at hand.

“Can we talk to Craig?” Token asked, his steady voice and apparent calmness doing little to conceal the concern in those brown eyes. 

“Absolutely,” his mom said, smiling sweetly as if the gesture could conceal the fatigue and unease so evident in her expression. She nudged the door open a little, welcoming Craig’s best friends inside as if the whole scenario was just another sliver of normalcy. “What brings you here so late, though? Clyde, honey, did Craig make fun of you while gaming again?” Her tone was light and teasing, eyebrows quirked in dry humor.

Her countenance wasn’t so lighthearted as soon as the anxious silence persevered.

In the seconds of awkward quiet that persisted, Craig took the opportunity to descend the remainder of the staircase— which did not go unnoticed. Clyde didn’t delay in launching past his other two friends, immediately crashing against Craig in an awkward and somber hug, tears already dampening the shoulder of Craig’s old Red Racer t-shirt and his mouth moving a mile a minute, as if he only had three seconds to say everything he needed to.

“Craig,” Clyde began, his voice raspy and quiet from the messy crying he’d been doing. And though he initially spoke carefully and slowly, he immediately vaulted into rambling, his own fear accelerating his speech until he barely made sense. “Craig, I’m sorry about the time I made fun of you for getting sent to Peru with Stan and his friends because I know you didn’t have much control over the situation and I should have known better because Cartman dragged me to Somalia that one time and I don’t have a right to call you stupid for going along with it—“

“Clyde, that was literally eight years ago, you don’t have to apologize. I ripped on you for the Somalia thing too—“

“And I’m sorry I accidentally dropped Stripe in the seventh grade, and I’m sorry for picking Hanzo every match just to fuck with you a couple weeks ago, and I’m sorry for never paying you back when I asked you to get me some Taco Bell,” he continued, like he was going down some mental list of minor and major wrongs he’d committed. “I’m sorry for smacking you with one of those ninja sickles I bought back in the fourth grade, and for dying your hair brown as a prank, and for all of the gay jokes Cartman made about you that I laughed at—“

“Clyde, I already said it’s fine—“

“I’m sorry for every time I’ve taken you for granted and for all the times I could have been a better friend,” Clyde said, ducking away to look Craig in the eye. He sniffled, a hand rising to brush some lingering tears from his reddened eyes. “You’re my best friend, and I...I don’t wanna lose you, dude.”

Craig could practically feel his mom’s gaze burning into his back, a thousand unspoken questions cleaving through the atmosphere. She still had no clue, no context for anything going on— just her son and three other despondent kids standing in the foyer at 12:27 in the morning. Even so, despite all of the confusion doubtlessly bristling within her, she didn’t say a word— as if she was giving Clyde his time to cry before she started asking any questions. 

Explaining this whole mess to her was going to be… taxing. All Craig could do was pat Clyde’s shoulder and wait for him to run out of tears.

After what felt like an eternity of Clyde awkwardly sobbing into Craig’s shoulder and everyone else lingering to the side, the former broke away, rubbing the remains of his tears away from his eyelids. He leaned against the wall, still sniffling weakly, almost seeming small as he ducked into the warmth of his letterman jacket from all of his years of football. Craig’s mother must have seen that as an opportunity to finally speak up, because she immediately cut in—

“So, boys: you know I love each one of you and that I told you that you could always come here if anything was wrong, but I’m going to need some context. What brings the three of you here at twelve-thirty in the morning on a Friday?”

If there was one trait Laura Tucker fulfilled better than any, it was her capacity to quell a situation with a few delicately placed words. Perhaps it was all just a part of being a mother of two increasingly sarcastic children and three unusual tagalongs; perhaps it was just intuition and comprehension. Either way, the calmness of her tone and the passiveness of her inquiry changed something in the atmosphere— awkwardness and anxiety yielding to a restrained sense of solemnity. 

And even so, not one of them spoke, but it wasn’t necessary. The explanation she desired was readily delivered by a few taps against a phone screen and Craig pulling up his messages for her to see.

His mother’s tired blue eyes wandered carefully over luminous words, fatigue-induced insouciance melting into wholly awake concern. She blinked a few times, as if the words before her eyes were some wild hallucination, as if exiling the lethargy from her body could change the meanings of the words before her eyes. Her brow furrowed and she gently placed a hand against her face, splaying her fingertips all across like she was dealing with the worst migraine she’d ever faced.

“And you got it at midnight?” She asked, her voice caught between firmness and wavering uncertainty. “It’s not just Liane’s son screwing with you, or something like that?”

Craig gestured to the area code, his expression neutral. With all the gentility one could expect from a person questioning her own reality, Laura framed Craig’s phone with her hands, the galaxy patterned case shrouded by her fingers curling around it. Her lips parted as if she was going to speak before some imaginary silencer seemed to cut her off, visibly regressing into her own contemplation. She kept blinking, as if this was all some dream she could banish from her vision.

“I, um— Thomas?” She called, swiveling to face the entrance to the kitchen and straightening out her spine. Her impressive height of five foot eleven seemed to diminish, the confidence of her stance and features practically melting away. “Could you come here?” Even her voice seemed weaker and strained, tight in the same way someone who’d just been crying would sound.

For some reason, seeing the uncertainty flash across her face was scarier than any reaction Craig had witnessed in the thirty minutes since his upcoming death was announced.

“Yea?” The voice of Craig’s father sounded from the kitchen, over the resonance of the Keurig producing a midnight cup of coffee. He ducked out of the archway that marked the entrance to the kitchen, his own exhaustion prominent in his face— from his struggle to keep his eyes open to the almost disoriented lilt of his voice. And yet, even though he was visibly tired, he still seemed so overly intimidating. It certainly didn’t aid the already powerful awkwardness looming over the cluster of people at the front door.

His mother didn’t say a word— she just walked over to her husband’s side and angled the phone so that he could see just what had sparked the house to life so early. 

“Oh,” he said, the low growl of his voice suddenly softer, and he cast an unsteady glance in his son’s direction. All Craig could do was nod.

“Don’t just ‘oh’ me,” Craig said, an empty chuckle lurking underneath his words. No one laughed, of course— all six of the people lingering there were all too wrapped up in the discomfort that layered itself over the moonlit foyer. It had been a feeble reach for normalcy in a situation that was anything but normal.

It was common for quietness to settle over the Tucker household; all four members were taciturn in varying degrees, introverted by different definitions. But this type of peace was anxious and unsettling. An amplitude of possible words practically floated overhead, just within reach and yet so dangerous to grasp— and so they seemed to dissipate, wisps of would-be conversations melting into the looming coldness of a Colorado winter night.

“I’m going upstairs,” Craig said decisively, before spinning on his heels and ascending the staircase. He was ninety percent sure he heard his dad start to say something before his mother gestured for his silence. She must have wordlessly encouraged Clyde, Jimmy, and Token to follow him upstairs, because immediately were his footsteps echoed by three more sets, and by the time he’d walked back into his room and returned to the pile of blankets he used as a makeshift cushion in front of his TV, each one of his best friends had made themselves at home in the usual spots of his bedroom.

Craig’s fingers ghosted over the joysticks of his Xbox controller, the sleeping console roaring back to life as he fiddled with the controls. He was just starting to launch right back into his fifth go against Vordt when Clyde’s confused voice sounded over the noises projected from his game.

“Dude, what are you doing?” 

“Playing Dark Souls, what does it look like?”

He didn't redirect his gaze from the pixelated events unfolding on his TV screen, his focus only deepening as he launched back into his fictional combat. He tried his best not to glance to the side, to take note of the shock flaring up in Clyde’s expression— simply dedicating his concentration to his game. 

Until Clyde snatched his controller from his hands and tossed it a short way to the side.

“What the fuck, Clyde?” Craig shot a glare in his best friend’s direction— the kind of angry stare that would have been scary to anyone who didn't know him on a personal scale. He immediately fished for his discarded controller, but Clyde scrambled just a little bit faster, nine years of football practice in comparison to Craig’s zero giving him quite the advantage. The second he retrieved it, he sprinted over to where Token was sitting on Craig’s bed and triumphantly placed it in his hands.

“Sorry, Craig, but you can’t just— waste your life like that,” Clyde said, brown eyes already just a few seconds away from filling up with tears all over again. His voice trembled over the words, his own anxieties laid bare. It did admittedly sound strange to hear what had previously been a simple pastime referred to as wasting his life. 

Then again, thinking of the fact that the remainder of his life only spanned across the next twenty three hours at maximum was strange too.

“I agree,” Token added, ever the mediator. He set Craig’s stolen Xbox controller to the side and folded his arms. “Craig, think about this: you have approximately twenty three hours to live, and that’s being optimistic. Do you really want to spend that time trying and failing to beat Dark Souls III?”

“Well, I figure my odds of actually dying are smaller if I spend the day in here,” Craig shrugged, and Clyde immediately launched right back into tearful whining.

“Dude, name one time, _one_ , that the notification was wrong,” Clyde’s entire face was overwrought with a paranoia Craig had never seen him possess. “It wasn’t wrong for my m-mom—“ he choked a little at the mention, inhaling sharply at what had to be lingering grief. “—and it probably won’t be wrong for you. I _hate_ thinking about it and it scares me, but you can’t change fate. You learned that shit back in Peru. You could, I don’t know, choke on some Mountain Dew or _something!_ ”

“I’d be pretty e-embarrassed to die by Mountain Dew,” Jimmy piped up, offering a weak smile. “Cr-Craig, I think you’re better off just le-lea— better off just l-leaving your house.”

“...but what the fuck am I supposed to do, then?” Craig asked, spinning to face his friends. The corners of his mouth twitched, his permanently apathetic countenance finally showing signs of breaching. For a moment, he almost seemed _vulnerable;_ unsure, almost afraid. For the first time in the fifty minutes since he’d been told his life was going to end, he actually seemed like he truly was as scared as the scenario warranted. “If I stick around here, it’s just going to make my parents sad, and I can’t just… traumatize you guys. Just… What am I supposed to do?”

For a moment, all four boys just sat there, quietly and uncertainly— the only sound coming from Clyde’s light sniffles and Jimmy drumming his fingers against his crutches. 

“I-I think I have an idea,” Jimmy declared, already reaching for his phone. With a few taps and a second to punch in his passcode, he gestured for Craig to come over and held the screen within view. “It’s this th-thing called the Last Friend app— you can use it to m-meet up with st-strangers, even other people who got the notification t-today. I s-signed up a long time ago— so did Butters and K-Kyle. Sometimes, an-anonymi — not knowing the person you sp-spend your last day with can be...th-therapeutic.” He offered another smile: that sunny, warm Jimmy smile that always seemed to light the room up.

Craig’s eyes lingered on the layout before him— the calming blue-and-white colors that layered the app, the list of names, the “register now!” button gleaming across the top of the screen. Every little facet seemed so welcoming, so oddly comforting.

He didn’t know why, but nothing in his brain stopped him from hitting that button.


	2. Constellating

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Can I begin by saying thank you for the overwhelming support you've all shown toward me and this fic despite only now being in the second chapter? I swear, I have not stopped smiling since Friday-- you are all so sweet and I greatly appreciate all of the kindness you've shown. And to the people who've read or have started reading They Both Die at the End... ;) I told you it's a good book
> 
> But anyway, thank you all so much! I hope you enjoy this chapter! <3

Spontaneous notifications at midnight were no real rarity for Tweek, but it never stopped him from flinching at the noise.

“Oh  _ Jesus— _ “

His half-drained mug clattered against the counter as he jumped, the ceramic spinning just slightly as it wobbled between points of balance. A few drops of deep brown bitterness sloshed over the curved edges, scattering little speckles of coffee across the wooden counter he’d just cleared a powdery film of flour off of a few seconds prior— an inconvenience that only elicited yet another sigh from him. With still-shaking fingers, he placed his palm against the rim of his coffee mug to stabilize it before he scrambled for the washcloth he’d draped over the sink faucet.

Messes of ingredients and the like were simply irritating facets of working in a coffee shop, of course; there were always remnants of sugar or vanilla that had escaped from teaspoons and measuring cups, little spots of milk that had escaped a coffee-flavored fate, crumbs and flickers of icing from hastily produced pastries. As common as they were, they never did grow any less troublesome to deal with. Maintaining tidiness and order had never been strengths of his, as evidenced by his tornado zone of a bedroom— but that space was all his own.

The coffeehouse belonged to his parents, and the last thing he needed was to give them a reason to eye him with disappointment again, to welcome the panoptic sets of eyes to view his every error, to burn reminders of his shortcomings in his spine with their unavoidable gazes—

and so he dragged the damp washcloth across the counter, silently praying that he hadn’t missed a spot. You never knew what debris could linger in the delicate crevices formed in between stretches of wood.

After a few minutes of repeatedly scrubbing the counter, of squinting to be sure no particles of flour or coffee dregs had slipped into the tiny spaces so customary to the material, Tweek straightened out and reached for his mug, immediately draining another quarter of the coffee swirling within. There was something grounding about the bitterness— a silent reminder that he was still standing there and that the tiles beneath his feet were real, that the wood of the counter and the rows of mugs and cups and glasses stashed in the counter were all  _ real _ . Sometimes, you needed little memos like that to keep moving along.

Besides, he was going to need that attachment to reality if he was going to handle whatever the contents of his strange new notification was. 

It hadn’t sounded like the usual chimes and bells— it wasn’t the trademark whistle of Twitter, or the  _ ding _ that came with CNN updates and text messages. There’d been something almost musical or rhythmic about the sound, and yet harrowing all the same: like some doomsday alert. Oh god, he hoped it wasn’t a doomsday alert— the glass doors and rows of windows left no inch of Tweak Bros. Coffee unseen, and there was no lock on the back room and he didn’t have any supplies or protection from whatever apocalypse could descend and his parents weren’t here and he had  _ nobody _ —

“Breathe,” he reminded himself weakly, voice frail and quick-paced beneath the word. He squeezed the handle of his mug. He wasn’t supposed to jump to conclusions anymore. He was supposed to close his eyes and breathe and rule out impractical scenarios and situations, even if his mind ran rampant with worst-case scenarios and anxiety-wrought responses. He was supposed to just pull himself together and act like the whole world wasn’t slipping through his fingertips like sand.

He was supposed to pretend that everything was normal and okay— as if it were as easy as that to convince the monsters inside his head that the universe wasn’t rallying against him. He was good at pretending; it had been half of why he’d signed up for theatre class in his first year of high school, before work and academics overran every little second of his life.

Bandaid-wrapped fingers closed around his phone, immediately flicking across the screen to punch in his passcode— he didn't trust the fingerprint system or facial recognition, after all, and he made sure every piece of his passcode was randomized and nigh-impossible to guess. He swiped downward to pull up his list of recent notifications, glancing across the time stamps and apps associated: the typical CNN articles and videos appeared sporadically in the roster, while a few other news stories and notifications gleamed amongst them. There was one black sheep in the flock, however: a Messages banner from an unfamiliar, yet official-looking number. He wasn't sure whether he was hoping more for a strange advertisement or an actual snippet of important information more, but regardless he tapped the banner and went to scanning over the contents of his message—

and he froze.

**[1/10/25 — 12:00 AM]**

_ If this message should arrive any later than precisely midnight in your time zone, we offer our most sincere of apologies. _

It didn't make sense.

_ Tweek Tweak, we regret to inform you that sometime within the next twenty-four hours, you will face an uncertain and untimely death. We can not disclose the precise circumstances, nor the exact time— but but we encourage you to live each minute like it is your last and enjoy the final day of your life. _

The whole world was  _ spinning _ —

_ We wish you the best. To quote Kevin Welch, “There’ll be two dates on your tombstone and all your friends will read ’em but all that’s gonna matter is that little dash between ’em.” _

And that was where it ended, but the tiny sets of words still burned in his brain.

Before he could even conjure up the rational side of his mind and evaluate the situation like he was supposed to, before he could remember all of the rushed lessons he'd been given in therapy before it grew too expensive and troublesome to maintain, before  _ anything _ , he was already sinking to the floor as if the wooden planks beneath his feet had gone up in flames, collapsing into ash and slipping away with the wind. He pulled his knees up to his chest and wrapped his arms around them, fingernails digging into his wrists, like the pain could somehow make this whole mess seem logical. He stared ahead, green eyes settling on the cabinet doors and somehow looking beyond.

It was amazing and all at once terrifying how quickly your life could fall apart. 

The smallest things could unravel the threads that held everything together, pull on the loose filaments and leave the ruins behind. People seldom put enough stock in the capacity of the minuscule details to turn everything on its head, and oftentimes the dismissal just led to more change. Simple stories could shift entire philosophies, temporary meetings could rewrite the scripts that seemed set in stone— midnight text messages could cause you to reevaluate everything you’d ever done in your life, and wonder just where the next twenty four hours would carry you.

All he could think about was what would do the job— if it would be fleeting and painless, if it would drag across for longer than he could bear, if it would be as simple as a car accident or as agonizing and unusual as collapsing in the snow and succumbing to winter. The possibilities were wild and tempestuous, an unholy storm raging against any degree of rationality he could conjure up. The twenty-four or fewer hours in between didn’t matter, the message’s quote be damned: all that did was the end.

For some reason, it didn’t scare him like it should have. 

Sure, he was terrified of what constituted as the end— of the possibilities that might bring him to death’s door. All he could think about was all of the ways everything could go wrong when his time was up, but the peace beyond the end was just enough to keep him from falling apart.

It was sad, really, but he didn’t care. He knew that you could never put a price tag on life, that the human heart and soul was an irreplaceable commodity— but perhaps that only applied to other people, who had lives to live instead of a shallow and repetitive existence. Above all of the layers of anxiety and fear and uncertainty drifted this unmistakable sense of relief. 

If his life was going to end today, so be it— all it meant was freedom. No more feeling more like a selling point to his parents instead of their son. No more prescriptions unsuited to him that he choked down anyway to save the world the trouble. No more stress, no more breakdowns, no more dedicating every little second of his life to class or work and nothing more, no more visits to the hospital for the repercussions of his wild attempts to destroy the monsters roaring beneath his skin. No more living his life in fear.

No more living at all.

Tweek knew there was something wrong about the thoughts overriding his sense of logic, that he shouldn’t be so optimistic about his own death— and yet, he didn’t care. No matter how many times he’d told himself that the present was only temporary, that the misery and laborious monotony of his life would yield to a better future, it always seemed like such a feeble attempt to glorify a “maybe.” He wasn’t clairvoyant, after all— how was he supposed to gauge whether or not the remainder of his life would have been spent working and fighting, the payoff permanently just out of reach? How was he to know that he wouldn’t just die alone as is?

He’d sacrificed the weak fragments of a social life he had back in middle school— giving up the fun of childhood in favor of work. Sharpening his intellect and helping to keep the family business from unraveling had overrun his focus, leaving no more room for friendship or wild escapades. He’d stopped talking beyond the classroom or counter. Hell, his last memoirs of real friendship and unpredictability had been the shenanigans he’d been dragged into by Stan Marsh and his ridiculously unfortunate ride-or-die friends, and even then he’d just been a temporary fixture. 

The importance of finding his function in society had outshined everything else— but all he had to show for it was falling a few points short of valedictorian and too few extracurriculars or volunteer hours to qualify for any respectable college. Now, in the year he’d been spending piecing together further qualifications and keeping his mental health underway, the fateful notification glimmered across his phone screen, years of fighting now meaningless. He’d be lying if he said he wasn’t bitter. 

It was a miserable way to live and a miserable way to die. All he could think about was everything he’d lost out on— the opportunities and chances he’d had in life to just  _ live _ . A small part of him longed for the craziness of working with Stan’s gang, of facing down Steven Spielberg and George Lucas with a rocket launcher or sneaking into a morgue at midnight. Emphasis on “small,” of course— he’d probably have a heart attack before he lived to experience either event again.

And still the fact remained: the last thing he wanted was to die alone.

Tweek stumbled to his feet, gripping the edge of the countertop as he searched for stable breathing. No matter how he considered the situation, the same conclusion always glittered through— he didn’t want to spend the last day of his life with no company but his own thoughts. Solitude made for a lonely way to go; but the one limitation was his rather apparent lack of friends. He cursed the fact that he’d basically made a hermit of himself during his years of school.

But the second he reached for his phone again, hoping that the screen hadn’t cracked from his frantic breakdown, he remembered a certain factor that could shift the whole equation.

He’d been following the Last Friend app for some time— ever since Phillip Pirrup died back in fourth grade, his remains found almost obliterated and unrecognizable in the street. The only reason anyone even knew it was him was because no other kid in town fit the bill of a fourth grade child who was completely unaccounted for— a hard testimony to narrow down, considering he’d been orphaned. Tweek still remembered just how harrowing it had been to stare at that empty desk and consider the fact that he’d never even acknowledged Pip before his grisly end.

He’d latched on to the app after that— he never created a visible profile or anything, but he needed some kind of consistency and predictability. He never wanted to think of someone he’d grown up with dying like Pip— alone and terrified out of his mind, never bid farewell or given the chance to find closure. So Tweek had resigned himself to simply observing: watching the names scroll by and marking any familiar ones, just so he could know why in advance if a classmate didn’t show up in school the next day. He felt bad for never offering a comforting hand to those who were marked as being on their final day of life, for never bothering to send a message or offering to spend a day with a dead person walking; but if he was being entirely honest, who would  _ want _ to deal with Tweek Tweak for the last hours of their life?

Imagining himself as one of those names with the customary asterisk of death had never really been something he’d taken the time to do. Not that death never crossed his mind— more that he’d never really contemplated needing the app. Yet here he was, publicizing his profile and adding all of the necessary information— including mentioning the fact that today was his last day to live. 

He hit “confirm” and closed his eyes, immediately launching into one of the many breathing exercises he’d picked up off the internet in order to help with his anxiety— inhale over four seconds, exhale over eight, repeat.

_ Four, eight, repeat. _

_ Four, eight, repeat. _

_ Four, eight, repeat. _

The world still seemed to spin perilously, the axels wiry and unstable, but he didn’t feel like collapsing anymore. His pulse thundered beneath his skin, anxiety only hastening his wild heartbeat, but Tweek could feel the blood that had been roaring in his veins quiet just a little, just like the stretch of a river beyond a set of rapids. 

“It’s gonna be okay,” he whispered beneath his breath, hoping he could convince himself it was true. No matter how the day went. No matter how unbelievable it sounded to say, no matter how much he wanted to fall apart and admit that he was deceiving himself with false affirmations. He set his phone to the side and immediately returned to work, tossing the long-abandoned washcloth back into the sink and moving to check the quantities of sugar packets arranged in one of the boxes off the side of the pick-up counter.

It was around one forty when his phone buzzed again, in the unique little musical tone he’d assigned to the application’s notification. Almost immediately did he pause in rearranging the tables that had shifted with a day of customers’ usage, slipping through the slim spaces between the awkwardly placed barricade of chairs. He lightly tapped the home button, and sure enough, gleaming across the top of his notification list was a message:

**stripedsupernova [Craig Tucker*]:** hey

...short and sweet, it seemed, a simple enough greeting.

Rather than immediately launching into a response, Tweek hesitated— thumbs poised over his phone’s keyboard, as if time had simply stopped. His eyes wandered back over the name in the same cycle, his mind sifting through the memories something so simple managed to rejuvenate.

Craig Tucker— one of his classmates from the days of first grade to the grueling semesters of senior year, universally known for his deadpan snarking and permanent air of indifference, always seen hanging around Jimmy Valmer, Token Black, and Clyde Donovan. Seldom seen without his NASA jacket and the blue-and-yellow chullo hat that made him stand out so prominently in a crowd, Craig had always been a strange and enigmatic kind of person: someone who worked harder than you’d expect in whatever kept his interest, and then regressed right back into his own little world the second the subject failed to maintain his attention. 

He’d been in Tweek’s Honors Physics class his sophomore year. Craig always loomed in the back row, and he oftentimes slept through lectures and other significant factors of class— and yet he maintained an A average for the entirety of the class’s duration. Tweek didn’t know how Craig had managed it, because he’d panicked over that class more than any of the other ones he took that year (save AP Government, particularly when they were discussing current events). It must have just come naturally to him.

Tweek had also beaten the absolute shit out of Craig way back in the third grade, and Craig had done the same in return— both boys had been hospitalized in the end, but not even the IVs and casts and machinery could prevent them from lunging at one another with the slightest provocation. It was sickly humorous, since they’d had no real gripes with one another, and Tweek had even lingered around with Craig and his friends a couple times: but other than that, they’d hardly really spoken, and they most certainly hadn’t recently.

As to why Craig had messaged him of all people, Tweek couldn’t begin to evaluate— and yet his mind automatically defaulted to the worst, the possibilities of Craig wanting a rematch almost a decade later, of him planning some elaborate murder plot. It wasn’t too difficult to imagine. Craig could be  _ terrifying _ , with a death glare to crown all death glares and an uncanny ability to leave all who encountered him wondering just what went on in his head. He was the kind of person who could so easily pull off a grotesque murder and not even wince if someone asked him where he’d been.

The asterisk next to Craig’s name, however, was an odd repellant to the anxious chains of paranoia screeching through his brain: it meant that Craig had gotten the notification too. That made his greeting a little less terrifying to respond to.

...once he thought of something to say, of course. Tweek didn’t want to be too forthcoming or too enigmatic, or possibly provoke whatever wrathful powers lay dormant within Craig’s blood— they’d all heard of what went down in Peru, after all. He didn’t want to utilize the usual formality so easily attributed to his style of texting, nor did he want to imply that he was trying to mirror Craig’s blunt and simple lowercase words, because what if it was too disconcerting to be overly formal and too cryptic to use a similar style? Craig’s message was the only one he’d gotten in almost two hours and it could very well be the only one which meant that this was his one and only shot unless he wanted to die alone—

_ Four, eight, repeat _ .

Staggering over what should have been a simple breath, Tweek closed his eyes, searching for some semblance of tranquility amidst his paranoia. This shouldn't have been as difficult as it was— it was a simple response to a simple greeting and nothing more. People messaged one another like this all the time. Communication and conversation were vital parts of living and functioning in society, and that was the simple task before him.

Even if he wanted to just astral project into a different plane of existence.

**tweek [Tweek Tweak*]:** Hello! :0

Oh god, how did people do this at  _ all _ , let alone through almost every waking second of their lives?! And on that note, why the  _ fuck _ was it so hard to send a simple message to a person? There was a ridiculous amount of aspects to consider: use of punctuation versus none at all, proper grammar and spelling or simple snippets and acronyms, emoticons or none. It didn’t seem like such a huge dilemma from the surface, but it all weighed upon the other person’s perception. That was the scary part.

But even as he feared the worst, only a few seconds passed before his screen lit up again.

**stripedsupernova [Craig Tucker*]:** we went to school together

It was just a simple little conversation starter, no indicators of Craig’s thoughts manifesting in the tiny script. Even though anxiety prickled along Tweek’s spine and he was ninety percent sure that he was going to hyperventilate any second now, the conversation only further reeled him in.

**tweek [Tweek Tweak*]:** Yea, I remember!

**tweek [Tweek Tweak*]:** You were in a couple of my classes through high school. Like Mr. King’s honors physics class

**tweek [Tweek Tweak*]:** I remember you were really good with the laws of physics and velocity and mass and force and stuff like that

**stripedsupernova [Craig Tucker*]:** thanks. just comes naturally i guess

**stripedsupernova [Craig Tucker*]:** you were pretty good at physics too

**tweek [Tweek Tweak*]:** Haha, noooo, math was always such a struggle for me. I still kind of suck at it

**stripedsupernova [Craig Tucker*]:** you must have a weird definition of sucking at something

The hurricane within Tweek’s veins had somehow quieted, the tempest slowly but surely entering a decline. The surge of panic left only debris. As to why or how, he couldn’t fully grasp because nothing had really changed— the same cycle of worrying about what to say and how to say it still made a resurgence every time Craig’s reply popped up, but the worry didn’t seem to last as long.

It was strange. He could already feel his thoughts splitting into a thousand directions, paranoia seeking out only the wildest of reasons for the brevity of his panicking — like what if Craig was a wizard or something, tampering with his mind and robbing him of his own emotions, oh  _ god _ —, but even that seemed to quell itself as well. Maybe it pertained to the calmness radiating from Craig’s blunt and simple words, the lack of judgement prevalent there. That made the most sense.

**tweek [Tweek Tweak*]:** Thank you, but I’m still convinced, lol. 

**tweek [Tweek Tweak*]:** So, um...

**tweek [Tweek Tweak*]:** I’m sorry if this sounds rude

**stripedsupernova [Craig Tucker*]:** dude, don’t worry about it

**stripedsupernova [Craig Tucker*]:** im not gonna bite you or anything lmao

**tweek [Tweek Tweak*]:** You could still punch me, though. Or scratch. Not biting doesn’t mean that you can’t do any of those other things.

**stripedsupernova [Craig Tucker*]:** oh wow you saw right through my plan.

Tweek almost dropped his phone before the second message quickly followed up, as if Craig had known that he’d default to seriousness.

**stripedsupernova [Craig Tucker*]:** im kidding, dude.

**stripedsupernova [Craig Tucker*]:** i won’t bite, punch, scratch, kick, or otherwise act like a complete fucking animal in your presence

**stripedsupernova [Craig Tucker*]:** so go ahead

**tweek [Tweek Tweak*]:** Okay, I believe you. I was just going to ask...you have friends, right? I don’t know their names but you were always around them when I’d see you at school.

**tweek [Tweek Tweak*]:** That being said, you could be spending today with them instead. Do you just not feel like it?

He knew he may as well just plan his funeral right there and then, because he was going to cringe himself to death before he finished this conversation.

The whole purpose of the messaging was to confirm your Last Friend, not chase them off and inspire them to spend the day with someone better. And yet, that was just what Tweek was doing— subtly pushing Craig to go off with Clyde and Jimmy and Token and have the time of his life doing something else in different circumstances. All he needed to do now was wait until Craig’s inevitable realization that yea, he didn’t have to spend the last day of his life around a practical stranger, so that he could close up the messages and disappear into his own world.

But even though he waited, his expectation never met truth. In fact, he could proudly say that it was delightfully subverted.

**stripedsupernova [Craig Tucker*]:** i can’t do that to them.

**stripedsupernova [Craig Tucker*]:** it’s cheesy as fuck but i really don’t wanna overwrite all the time we spent together with a shit ton of crying and mourning in advance

**stripedsupernova [Craig Tucker*]:** we could play COD or some shit but it wouldn’t be fun because all we’d be thinking about was oh shit, Craig’s gonna die soon

**stripedsupernova [Craig Tucker*]:** i think it’s easier like this.

“Easy” was certainly a word for it.

Craig’s reasoning was almost sweet, in a way, even if it was sad. From the very beginning of first grade to graduation day, Tweek had only seldom caught any expression crossing those sharp features— his heart well-guarded beneath a ratty NASA hoodie, far unlike the one Tweek wore on his sleeve. He always seemed icy and aloof, as distant as an island floating just past the horizon.

But islands could always be reached, in the end. It took a little more effort and some less conventional supplies, but you could always get there if you worked toward it. Perhaps that’s what this was.

**tweek [Tweek Tweak*]:** Yea, I know what you mean.

**tweek [Tweek Tweak*]:** Maybe in a different way, of course! I don’t want to invalidate your own feelings or anything because that would be a dick move and I’m sorry if it came across that way

**tweek [Tweek Tweak*]:** But I don’t want anyone I’m close to watching me die, you know? I’d hate to hurt the people I love like that.

**tweek [Tweek Tweak*]:** Not that I want to traumatize you or anything like that either! Jesus Christ that came out wrong

**tweek [Tweek Tweak*]:** I’m sorry

**tweek [Tweek Tweak*]:** It’s just that we’re kind of strangers, you know? We went to school together and everything but we never really talked especially after elementary school even if we saw each other in the halls and shit

**tweek [Tweek Tweak*]:** This is all sounding extremely rude when I type it out 

And there he went again, digging his own grave with words instead of a shovel. Tweek just wanted to bury his face in his hands and hide— from his rambling, from Craig, from the  _ world _ . Anything would be better than thinking about this conversation and all of the ways he was  _ ruining _ it—

**stripedsupernova [Craig Tucker*]:** you don’t sound rude

**stripedsupernova [Craig Tucker*]:** im not pissed off and i know what you meant

**stripedsupernova [Craig Tucker*]:** just uh. breathe i guess

**tweek [Tweek Tweak*]:** Okay 

And so he did.

_ Four, eight, repeat. _

**tweek [Tweek Tweak*]:** I’m sorry, man, I just worry. I know it seems stupid and everything, but all I can think about is all the ways I’m screwing up this conversation.

**tweek [Tweek Tweak*]:** Could we just? I don’t know, start over?

**stripedsupernova [Craig Tucker*]:** nah

**tweek [Tweek Tweak*]:** What???? Why not???? D:

**stripedsupernova [Craig Tucker*]:** because we don’t need to

**stripedsupernova [Craig Tucker*]:** not much time to do it either, lmao

**stripedsupernova [Craig Tucker*]:** sorry that may have been in bad taste

Even juxtaposing the direness of the situation, Tweek couldn’t help but snort at Craig’s attempt at humor. Jimmy’s comedic genius clearly hadn’t rubbed off on him or anything.

He decided that he liked Craig Tucker— regardless of the overt straightforwardness and the memories of the time they’d beaten each other up. It didn’t matter that Craig was about as easy to figure out as a calculus equation, or that he was difficult to talk to, or that he was unreadable and unemotional. He’d made an effort to help Tweek out when it felt like everything he’d done was irreparable.

No one had ever done that for him before.

A faint smile tugged at the corners of his lips as he considered it all— how strange it was that only a small conversation could instantly illuminate your opinion of a person. But those were the things you dwelled on when your time was running out; when your entire world was beginning to crumble around you. But that was just how life was. You didn’t realize the tiniest details until they ran the risk of fading.

**tweek [Tweek Tweak*]:** Bad taste or not, I laughed.

**stripedsupernova [Craig Tucker*]:** lmao good. token elbowed me in the ribs for that but now i can say it was worth it

**tweek [Tweek Tweak*]:** So, um, I’m stuck working for a while, so…

**tweek [Tweek Tweak*]:** Could you maybe come meet up with me at my parents’ coffeehouse? It’s called Tweak Bros, and it’s next to the movie theater and the U-Store It facility. Sorry for the inconvenience and all, but, uh…

**tweek [Tweek Tweak*]:** Can you drop by? I can make us some coffee or something else if you don’t like coffee

The seconds in between seemed infinite, dragging on far longer than they should have. For a moment Tweek almost wondered if Craig had changed his mind, backing out without any explanation or reasoning beyond Tweek’s own rambling. He could feel his pulse quickening again and a sense of dizziness spinning in his brain, the universe practically collapsing beneath his feet—

But then his phone buzzed again. Tweek immediately switched it back on and swiped through a few of the usual CNN banners, pulling open the most recent message—

**stripedsupernova [Craig Tucker*]:** yea, i’ll be there in twenty

**stripedsupernova [Craig Tucker*]:** also

**stripedsupernova [Craig Tucker*]:** i love coffee

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I do want to quickly establish one thing-- updates for this may be a bit irregular, especially considering that I'll be out of town at competitions over the next three Saturdays, but I will try my absolute hardest to get chapters out as soon as possible! Chapter 3 is nearly done already, but I would like to at least start the fourth chapter before it gets uploaded. Anyways, thank you again for reading and I hope you have a lovely day!


	3. In Between Orbits

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I _almost_ didn't manage to get this finished in time-- but luckily enough, I was having some difficulties sleeping tonight and I decided that I didn't want to A. go a whole week without uploading and B. leave for my competition with an almost completed chapter. So I took a bit of time and finished off chapter 3! Here's hoping you guys like it, ahaha~
> 
> Again, thank you for the support you've all shown! Your kindness has not gone unnoticed and it means the world to me that so many people have shown interest in this fic! I'm still kinda dealing with the posting anxiety but I'm slowly getting more excited to upload chapters instead of terrified! Thank you all and happy reading!

“I think that’s the most unabashedly, embarrassingly  _ cheesy _ you have ever been in your entire life.”

Token’s snide comment, alongside Jimmy and Clyde’s cacophony of laughter, was, in simple terms, the very last thing he wanted to hear— but as the universe had been so overzealous in teaching him that night, the things you prayed to avoid could always end up smacking you straight in the face at unsettling velocity. It was the way of the universe to screw you over, oftentimes, and it seemed especially partial to screwing with Craig Tucker.

Craig felt his cheeks burning at his friends’ relentless cackling, his gaze suddenly drawn to the glow-in-the-dark constellations gleaming over his ceiling instead of meeting those of his company. He folded his arms and rolled the excess fabric of his starfield-patterned NASA hoodie in between his fingers, as if such a tiny action could somehow get his best friends to stop lampooning his innumerable attempts at seeming socially competent. Of course, that was wishful thinking, and not a single one of the sticky plastic stars pinned above their heads could make that line of thought come true.

“ _ I _ thought it was smooth,” Craig said, and he immediately wanted to smack himself in the face for sounding so defensive.

“Yeah, Craig, s-s-smooth as  _ gravel _ ,” Jimmy replied, and the cackling just rekindled itself.

“I bow to your social skills, Master Craig! Generations to come shall enshrine your teachings, and your ‘awesome conversational talents’ will be novelized! All hail the king of social interaction!” Clyde wheezed through every word he spoke, only managing not to collapse from laughter because of the hand he rested on the bookshelf, which served as a solid stabilizer. He’d picked up a lot of sarcasm from Craig over all of the years they’d spent together, and now more than ever did Craig want to sock both Clyde and himself for it.

“Shut up, Clyde,” was all he managed, though.

“It’s also a blatant lie: you hate coffee unless someone dumps three packets of sugar in it.” Token said, an annoying smirk spreading across his face. He folded his arms and leaned against the wall, still fixing a vaguely mocking look in Craig’s general direction. “How are you going to stop yourself from acting like a total socially inadequate nerd without us?”

“Shut up, Token.”

“Real creative response, dude,” Token chuckled, shaking his head. “Still, you said twenty minutes, and while I’m sure the three of us could make fun of your ridiculous lack of social skills for centuries to come, you’d better start driving over. Tweak Bros is a pretty long distance away, even by car.”

“No speeding,” Clyde added, and Craig had to bite his tongue to evade calling him a hypocrite. Between the two of them and Token, Clyde was positively the  _ worst _ when it came to driving— he always went at least ten miles under or over the speed limit and forgot to use his turn signals half of the time. His absolute lack of competency behind the wheel had eventually culminated in Craig, Token, and Jimmy refusing to let him drive anywhere, at least when they were with him. He was also banned from riding shotgun on top of that.

His heart stung a little bit when all of those memories surfaced, in truth— the hilarity and emotion captivated in time now bristling underneath his skin. Even though each moment that came to mind had played some role in shaping the strength of their friendship, even though sentimentality overwhelmed any tragedy lingering in yesterday, all of the time Craig had spent with his best friends now seemed so incredibly poignant.

A small part of him hated it— that death looming over him was stealing away the joy of nostalgia and leaving only heartbreak behind. It was undeniably embittering to dwell on memories of skipping classes and zombie movie weekends, only for the excitement of passed time to yield to resentment for the inability to replicate it.

But that was what happened when you knew what was coming— and that was precisely why Craig knew that spending his last day on earth with his best friends would be too much heartbreak to take.

“I won’t speed, Clyde,” Craig said as he rose to his feet, offering a faint and solemn smile toward his best friend. 

The moments in between were always the least conventional, the ones where any trace of routine or normalcy flew straight out the window. It was the space when you knew the goodbyes and the tears and the sappy last words were coming, but their arrival was yet to descend. The disconcerting quiet seemed to last an eternity, and the only reason anyone knew it was anything shorter was because they didn’t  _ have _ an eternity. 

Silence only persisted, even as Craig started walking toward Clyde and enveloped him in a hug before anyone could say a thing. Just as one would expect from him, Clyde didn’t delay in wrapping his arms around his best friend as well, burying his face in his shoulder and biting back another tidal wave of tears. Words were unnecessary for just those few moments, no additional layers required for a silent farewell.

“Thanks for being the best non-biological brother I could ask for,” Craig mumbled as he stepped back a little, the typical neutrality of his expression giving way to a reminiscent smile. 

“Thank  _ you _ for always listening,” Clyde said in return, glassy tears already threatening to overflow from his eyelids, and yet that stupid smile showed no signs of leaving. “Non-biological bros until the end.”

Without any need for invitation or gesture, Token and Jimmy made their way over as well, seamlessly welcomed into the awkward goodbye hug. For a few minutes, they remained like that— four best friends wordlessly commemorating a decade of companionship before four became three. It was uncomfortably comfortable, an overlap of the sorrow of goodbye and customary gestures, regular parts of life intertwining with finality. The melancholy of the matter was sharp and agonizing, and Craig wasn’t sure how to feel about it.

He couldn’t deny the dull and looming pain in his chest, though— like a pebble forcefully shoved against his heart, the pressure crafting a resonating ache. Somewhere within him did grief for everything he was leaving behind embed itself, and he wanted nothing more than for it to go the hell away.

“You guys aren’t allowed to forget me,” he said, his voice as much of a blank slate as ever. It was always difficult to tell when he was being serious and when he was mocking you, and that didn’t change right there and then. “If you do, I’ll haunt the shit out of you. Jimmy, I expect at least one joke about me per comedy show in the future, even when you’re rich and famous.”

“I c-c-can do that,” Jimmy smiled, but it wasn’t as radiantly and contagiously happy as it should have been. “My a-audiences will always be reg-regaled with the tale of Craig, who was a total n-nerd. Th-they will have to leave t-ten th— ten th-thousand dollars cash on your g-gravestone. B-but until then, Token c-can do it.”

“You’ll be the richest dead guy ever,” Token said, his voice lilting between lighthearted joking and a powerful sense of sadness. 

“Make it rain from the grave and get yourself some ghost tacos,” Clyde laughed humorlessly. All of the amusement in his face was so visibly feigned and unmotivated. He was trying to preserve the typicality of all of their dumb exchanges, and yet he was trying too hard— just like he always ended up doing. 

“Just hold the Nazi Zombie sauce.”

“Fuck you.”

“Not if you expect Bebe to ever be interested in you again.”

Craig snickered as Clyde swung in to shove him, a mixture of embarrassment and guilty amusement flaring in his brown eyes. Craig resisted the urge to stick out his tongue, as if this were all happening a decade before-- as if they were just stupid kids again, their biggest worries manifesting in spelling tests and multiplication tables...and the occasional visit to Somalia or Peru. Everything felt normal for just those few minutes, nothing like a final goodbye.

“I’m gonna miss you, man,” Clyde said suddenly, leaning against Craig one final time, his face downcast. 

One last moment passed before Token, Clyde, and Jimmy each straightened out and stepped away, faces still wracked with individual levels of uncertainty. With Craig not far behind them, they all made their way downstairs, bidding quick farewells to Craig’s parents and disappearing out the door and into the coolness of the ridiculously early Colorado morning. 

Craig watched from the doorway as the three of them all climbed into Token’s car, steam curling from the engine as it roared to life. Even through the tinted windows, he could see Clyde curling up against the leather backseat, trying his hardest not to fall apart all over again. He watched Jimmy turn from the passenger’s side to face the back, doubtlessly trying to provide some comfort as Token put the car into reverse and pulled out of the driveway.

And then his silver Mercedes disappeared down the street, and with it the three closest friends Craig had ever had.

He turned on his heels and closed the door behind him, the cold lingering on his skin and anxiety pounding in his chest. He leaned against the mahogany and closed his eyes, sharply inhaling and tugging on the yellow braided strands of his hat, the blue fabric falling over his eyelids. It was just an automatic habit, something he did whenever the circumstances he faced went way beyond his control. 

Saying goodbye to his best friends had been agonizing. His chest still ached from what he was sure was heartbreak, a horrible hollowness looming in his rib cage. It had been so much more  _ difficult _ than he thought possible— and now he had to do it all over again, but this time, with his family. He’d never dreaded anything more in his life.

And even though all he wanted to do was run right out that door and head straight to Tweak Bros without having to suffer through the heartache, Craig just readjusted his chullo hat and headed straight into the kitchen.

His dad sat at the table, his eyes heavy-lidded and his head balanced in his palm, hunched over a still-full cup of coffee. He grunted in acknowledgement as Craig walked beneath the archway, though he didn’t make eye contact— his gaze oddly fixated on the swirl of milk in his coffee, like it was the most intriguing thing he’d seen in a long time. Tricia sat in her usual spot at the table, her scarlet hair disheveled and her face warped with exhaustion, while his mother lingered at the counter, busy stirring some sugar into her own late-night cup of coffee.

“I’m heading out,” Craig began, wavering over the syllables with all the hesitance one would expect from a person saying goodbye to his family for the final time. He paused as Tricia and his mother turned to face him, expectancy washing over their expressions, but his father continued to stare at his coffee like a particularly intriguing book. 

“Where, though? Oh my god, are you going to hang out with Clyde for the next twenty two hours? He’ll cry the entire time and you know that,” Tricia snickered. Despite the humor in her voice, there was a similar flatness underlying it all.

“No, I already said goodbye to them,” Craig said calmly. “Jimmy helped me get in contact with a kid from school who...also got the notification today. We’re gonna last it out together.”

“At least you’re not doing it alone— but I guess I owe Ike Broflovski ten bucks. I bet him that you were going to die alone.”

“Screw you, Patricia.”

“You know that’s not my name, you dick.”

“Tricia, watch your language and be nice to your brother,” Laura called, shooting her daughter a legendary death glare and folding her arms. “Craig, I… I hope you and this kid manage to have fun today.” She set her coffee mug to the side and walked over to her son’s side, gingerly enfolding him in a hug. “I’m proud of you for going out there. If it were me, I don’t think you could pay me to leave the house.” She chuckled softly, her lips curving into a weak smile. “I love you, Craig— I’m so glad I got to be your mother.”

She set a hand on his shoulder and planted a kiss on his forehead, her eyebrows slightly furrowed and her features shadowed by an unspoken despondency. With one last reassuring squeeze to his shoulder, his mother backed away, sinking into the chair nearest to the one occupied by her husband.

“...hey, Craig,” Tricia said, all of the teasing in her tone completely dissipated, sacrificed for a calm and certain air. Aquamarine eyes locked onto his own blue ones, a newfound seriousness glinting within as she spoke again. “Uh… I’ll take care of Stripe for you. I promise. I won’t forget to feed her or anything.”

That was her way of saying goodbye, it seemed— the line she walked between emotional control and the wildest situations. She’d never been one for sentimentality, locked into a semipermanent state of sardonic stoicism, always struggling to lean too far into the realm of basic human emotion. That difficulty seemed to be locked into the Tucker DNA. So in return for his sister’s awkward and vague farewell, Craig lifted up a hand and offered a middle finger salute, a faint smile erasing any of the malevolence one could associate with the gesture.

Tricia just smiled and flipped him off back.

“Thomas,” Laura said suddenly, gently elbowing her husband in one of his monstrously exaggerated shoulders. She fixed those accusatory blue eyes on him and quirked an eyebrow, drumming her fingers against the handle of her coffee mug to attract his attention. “I think you owe someone a goodbye.”

His father’s face seemed to burn, a flustered lack of certainty crossing over the angular facets of his face. His eyes flicked between his wife and his son, his mouth ajar as if he wanted to say something but had no idea what. But through a couple seconds of awkward and unsure glances, he seemed to cave— rising unsteadily on his feet and approaching Craig. 

“Son,” he started, the discomfort blaring in just a single word quite the antithesis to his menacing height. “I…”

Thomas lifted an arm and scratched at the back of his neck, frozen and unsure of just what else he should say. If there was one thing he and his son had in common amidst their innumerable differences, it was the social awkwardness they shared and flaunted without ever even meaning to. He was floundering over what to say, but unlike Tricia, he didn’t have as prominent of an escape pod.

“...I love you, and I’m proud to be able to call myself your father.” He said, an evident mimicry of his wife’s own earlier speech. “Look, I… know we don’t always get along and that we’ve clashed on several points, but none of that changes the fact that you are my son, you always will be my son, and that I’ll always be proud to be your dad. I love you, Craig, and I want you to make the most of today.” The more he spoke, the more choked up he sounded, but undeniable triumph entwined itself with the words. He managed a smile and a pat against his son’s shoulder.

“I will, Dad,” Craig replied, and he returned the gesture.

Then he swiveled on his feet and disappeared beyond the kitchen archway and out the front door, slipping into the driver’s seat of his secondhand Equinox and feeling it rev to life. All he could do was swallow back the sadness straining out his throat as he pulled out of his driveway and started down the road.

The ten minutes it took to get to Tweak Bros felt like much longer, but he supposed he could blame that on the heftiness of the thoughts weighing in his brain. Time seemed to curl over and hit the snooze button whenever you needed it to pass by the fastest, and when your mind was rich with troubled thoughts and dwelled on somber memories, it may as well have just choked down a full bottle of melatonin and slept through the alarm. 

Time was a fucking deadbeat.

Even so, by the time he’d managed to park his car in front of the aforementioned coffeehouse, he knew by a glance at the clock on the dashboard that only nine or ten minutes had flown by. It was 2:19 AM, just two minutes earlier than the twenty he’d promised, and for a second Craig debated whether or not to wait on those two minutes to catch up on him. In the end, his time-management skills won over, and he curled a hand around the door handle and slipped inside the vacant coffee shop.

He knew he probably should have waited when a screech of “ _ Jesus Christ! _ ” and the sound of falling boxes resonated from the back room.

Craig quirked an eyebrow as he listened to the unseen scrambling, the sounds of objects being hastily rearranged and shuffled past his only implication that anyone else was here. The lights were out and shadows embraced every detail of the sizable shop, the only way to see manifesting in the ivory moonbeams bleeding through the wall of windows. Every surface in the building, be it table or countertop, was positively spotless— as was the floor, devoid of dust or other such commonalities. The entire place emanated an almost dangerous air, too pristine to be abandoned and yet too still all the same. He’d always loved places like these. Stores after midnight, abandoned homes and supermarkets— they all felt delightfully ominous, radiating an aura of comfortable and yet disconcerting silence, real-life contradictions.

So he certainly didn’t expect to like the place just the same (if not a little bit more) when a vaguely familiar boy stumbled out from a concealed door.

Wisps of unruly canary-yellow hair had been halfheartedly flicked out of the way of olive eyes, dark circles far too prominent against pale and freckled skin. His eyebrows were furrowed just slightly, a strong flare of suspicion crossing over the softer edges of his features. A Tweak Bros. Coffee apron was hastily strung over his clothes, the sleeves of his green button-up shirt rolled up to reveal a patchwork of colorful bandaids and hardly-faded scars. He held a broom like a battleaxe, the bristles aimed vaguely toward the door, to a point where he looked almost threatening despite his small frame— but they settled as soon as his eyes landed on Craig’s silhouette.

“O-oh!” Tweek Tweak exclaimed, all of his menacing confusion evaporated from his stance. Instead, he set the broom up against the wall and curled his arms inward, the fingers of one hand instinctively prying at a bright magenta bandaid on the other, a distinct embarrassment registering in his every motion. “My bad, I, uh…”

It didn’t take a psychic to know that Tweek had precisely no clue just what he was supposed to do in this situation. Hell, Craig was often considered the most emotionally disconnected person in all of Colorado by his friends, and even he could see the anxiety overflowing Tweek’s stance— his averted eyes, the slight twitch that seemed to strike him every couple of moments, his little tics and fidgets as he searched for something to say. It was some hybrid of uncertainty and a vague sense of humiliation at wielding a broom like a weapon in the direction of his Last Friend, it seemed, and Craig really couldn’t blame him.

He was nervous too. But no one would ever hear him admit to it— he knew how to keep his emotions from surfacing, locked away in some box at the pit of his heart, the key long discarded. And so it seemed it was his job to patch up the awkwardness.

“I should’ve knocked?” Craig offered.

“It m-might’ve been nice,” Tweek admitted in turn, though the flustered look didn’t leave his face. “I mean, it’s not your fault or anything! You had no way of knowing I was in the back room, and maybe the knocking would have made me jump anyways so don’t feel the need to apologize or whatever—!” 

He cut himself off in the midst of his rambling, settling a hand over the bridge of his nose and staring at the floor, clearly yet to recover from the startling. He muttered a few inaudible snippets of sentences to himself before he looked up again, hesitantly meeting Craig’s expectant gaze.

“I already made coffee,” he said, the words lifting like a question. Craig just nodded and slipped into a chair at one of the tables, while Tweek darted behind the counter to fetch two pre-brewed cups of still-warm coffee. He quickly returned and set two white mugs down against the wood before he perched on the edge of a chair as well. “I hope you like it, it’s a Colombian import I bought for myself a couple weeks ago. Not for the shop, just special occasions.”

Tweek immediately took a long sip from his cup, the nearly-black pool of coffee diminished to only half its initial size in mere seconds. Craig took a few careful sips and tried not to flinch at the overwhelming bitterness, silently longing for a sugar packet or four to dunk into the inky liquid. He really shouldn’t have lied about his preferences in drink. His tongue was going to curse him for the remainder of this lifetime and into whatever came after.

Swallowing traces of both physical and emotional bitterness, Craig trained his eyes on Tweek, arbitrarily searching for some conversation topic to break the sheet of ice so powerfully laid between them. There was something troubling about his constant flinching, his inability to sit still due to his own unnatural shakiness. On top of that, there were those shadows burrowing beneath Tweek’s eyelids— evidence of exhaustion that doubtlessly came from overworking himself. The dark circles had always been there, as far as he remembered— from third grade to twelfth, visible consequences to all the hard work he poured into every aspect of his life, be it work or school.

His heart sank a bit when he thought about it. Now, it didn’t matter how hard either one of them had worked in their lives. The digits of SAT scores, the hours they spent on studying for tests or working part-time jobs, the credits they spent all of high school trying to achieve and exceed— it was all obsolete. Neither boy had been given the chance to make something of their lives, to claim the futures they’d fought for over year upon year.

It wasn’t fair, Craig decided, that a boy like Tweek, who had been known for sacrificing his free time just to work or study, had been robbed of the future he so rightfully deserved. 

Slightly embittered, Craig shifted around in his seat, eyes flicking to the logo on Tweek’s coffee-stained apron and lingering for just a few seconds, as if unsure of how to phrase the question looming on his brain. “So…you’re spending your last day on Earth at this fucking coffee shop?”

They may as well have started digging his grave right then.

Even though Craig wanted to just bite his tongue and reword his rather... _ awkward _ inquiry, Tweek didn’t seem offended, like he’d expected. Instead, a tiny and humorless smile crossed over his face and he let out a soft chuckle, his shoulders briefly flying up in a shrug. His bandaid-speckled fingers curled around the handle of his coffee mug. “Well, yea! I always work the night shift. I’m the only employee besides my parents and I don’t really sleep as is, so it works out!” He sheepishly smiled. “Besides, I don’t think my dad would be all too happy if I ditched work or anything, so here I am.”

Immediately, Craig found himself questioning the character of Tweek’s father. He’d encountered Mr. Tweak a couple times before, just because Clyde liked to swing by to go for the cupcakes always on display around noon, and the only word that adequately summed him up was “creepy.” He didn’t exhibit any traits of a potential serial killer or anything like that, but he always spoke in a chillingly serene tone, regardless of the dissonance between his voice and the words leaving his mouth. His dull green eyes lingered too long without blinking and he was prone to mellifluous metaphors, which only reinforced Craig’s initial opinion. He also always remembered their names regardless of the fact that none of them were regulars, which was only the “what the fuck” flavored icing on top of the creepiness cake.

Maybe he was just being cynical, but so be it. He’d judge whoever as harshly as he felt like, and no one really could stop him. 

“Night shift? Isn’t the store closed, though?” He asked.

“It closes at midnight, and I just take the responsibility of shutting everything down.” Tweek said. “I-It’s easy, really— rearranging tables and cleaning them off, doing any necessary dishes, checking stocks and organizing the back room, stuff like that. Most of the time it takes long enough that I end up baking shit for the breakfast rush anyway. Saves my parents some trouble and they get sleep that way so it all levels out!”

Craig eyed him with a mixture of concern and skepticism, unable to  _ not _ notice just how unsure Tweek’s own words sounded leaving his mouth. He spoke too hastily, his tone all but stating that he was trying to convince either himself or Craig or both that he was telling the truth. It wasn’t a very convincing act, all in all: the shadows under those pretty green eyes and the incessant twitching betrayed his words. 

“...dude, you’re going to die in, what, twenty two hours,” Craig said, and he immediately wanted to kick himself all over again when he caught the brief flare of anxiety flickering up in Tweek’s eyes. 

“...I-I know,” Tweek answered, his eyes suddenly and wholly concentrated on the table, unable to meet Craig’s eyes. Every few seconds his attention would flick to the sides, overly engaged in motionless little pieces of decor; really just following any excuse to not make eye contact. “But— ngh — isn’t it better that I’m productive instead? It’s better for my parents and all…” He smiled softly as he spoke, albeit joylessly. “Y’know, no point living today for me if I don’t have tomorrow…!”

A relentless chain of spikes seemed to spear their way up Craig’s spine, some mixture of unspoken fury and ginger concern washing over him in full. He furrowed his eyebrows and set his coffee mug down in front of him, its contents long since forgotten. 

There was something so jarring about it all— the casualness lilting in Tweek’s tone as he spoke of the lack of weight his own life held, the careful dancing around the issues at hand, the visible and powerful fear of disappointment that seemed to blossom beneath his hastily and unevenly bandaged skin. Those green eyes seemed sullen, possessed by an overwhelming sadness that he couldn’t vocalize, and that was all the evidence one could need to realize that Tweek wasn’t quite speaking on his own behalf. 

All he seemed to care about was what he’d leave behind.

“Yea, dude, here’s the thing: you shouldn’t give a fuck about what your dad thinks, because like you said, you don’t have a tomorrow. He can deal with this shit any day.” He fixed his eyes on Tweek’s, perhaps to punctuate his point, but the eye contact was extremely one-sided. Letting out a tiny sigh, Craig let his eyes wander over the room again—

when they landed on a cork board plastered in a spectrum of tiny slips of paper, and an idea shot right into his thoughts.

Craig immediately rose from his seat, and just as Tweek’s face began to twist up with even more anxiety, he spoke up again. “Tweek, do you have any spare sticky notes or anything?”

“O-oh, uh, yeah?” Tweek said, tilting his head in confusion. He sauntered over past the counter and shuffled through the unseen contents of one of the several drawers, plucking out pens and scissors and long forgotten self-addressed notes before he produced a dwindling pad of neon green sticky notes. Peeling one off of the set, Tweek set both it and one of the pens in Craig’s hands, eyeing him curiously as he did so. “Wh-why? Oh Jesus, are you okay? Am I getting in the way of something?! Oh god, you don’t have to feel obligated to stay around here, man, I don’t want to screw up your day—!”

His ranting was dispelled by a gentle hand gesture from Craig, and he lingered in silence at the counter as Craig clicked the pen to life and began scrawling something in the most legible penmanship he could muster. After a few seconds, he tossed the pen back over and started behind the counter, before triumphantly slapping the little slip of paper into place against one of the Keurig machines.

Tweek nearly had a heart attack when he read what it said.

_ FUCK YOU _ was scratched across the lime-colored piece of paper in big, bold letters, the handwriting a far cry from Tweek’s own frenzied scrawl. Even so, the comfort of evading any blame didn’t quell the surge of anxiety that seemed to spear through his fast-beating heart.

“Why would you write that?!” He screeched, but before he could dive over to the Keurig and destroy the evidence, Craig already placed a hand on his shoulder and was eyeing him not with contempt or skepticism, but with a calming gentility that had never really been expressed toward him before. Even though his heart still hammered wildly beneath his ribs, for a second, some of the frantic twitching and fidgets just ceased.

“If your dad is the kind of person who won’t let you spend your last day however you want, he can just fuck off and take care of his own goddamned coffee shop,” Craig said dryly, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. “Today, you’re gonna do something fun, and we are gonna get some McDonald’s.”

And without any hesitation, Craig’s calloused fingers intertwined with Tweek’s and closed around them, and Craig led Tweek right out the door of Tweak Bros Coffeehouse, letting the glass-enforced door slam shut behind them.

He didn’t delay in turning the forgotten sign to “closed” on the way out, either.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And so the journey begins~
> 
> I think there should only be about four more chapters after this one, and I am prepared to take you all on one hell of a ride with each one. fufufufufu


	4. One Star is Always Brighter

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry this took so long. I hope it's at least worth the wait.

The rich, slightly earthy scent of coffee was starting to grow on him, if he was being totally honest. The bitingly acrid taste could still go fuck itself, but at least it didn’t  _ smell _ so unbearable and atrocious to him anymore. Otherwise, Craig figured that surviving a day with someone practically addicted to the stuff would be the final nail in his predestined coffin.

Warm tendrils of steam whistled through the slits in the cover of Tweek’s coffee, the aroma permeating throughout Craig’s secondhand Equinox, an easy winner against that of the paper-wrapped sausage biscuit in Craig’s hand. It was still dark outside, but the indigo sky paled on the horizon, magenta and gold beginning to seep over, and the stars grew ghostly overhead as dawn wrote them away. A mixture of moonlight and street-lamps, as well as the light pouring through the windows of the McDonald’s they’d stopped at, was the only illumination either one of them needed.

It was annoying that the only access the residents of South Park really had to fast food was via a twenty minute drive.  _ Really _ annoying, especially when you were trying to make every last moment count. A minute spent on worn backroads was a minute wasted, and though Craig had never been particularly time-conscious, he couldn’t deny that it annoyed the hell out of him. 

Still, it was a pesky drive for a decent breakfast or charging right back into the house he’d said goodbye to so they could raid the pantry of Pop Tarts. They’d made the better choice.

For the moment, Craig had parked just on the edge of the parking lot, just beneath a few of the streetlights lined up alongside the main road, a fair distance away from the drive-thru but not out of the way of light. It was shockingly busy considering it was about four-thirty in the morning, but perhaps that was just what happened when a place was open twenty-four hours a day and just shy of Denver’s city limits. 

Underneath the dim light filtering in through the windows, heat flowing through the vents to fight off the below-freezing temperature, Craig and Tweek had both curled up in their respective seats, neither one of them certain of what to say. It had been a quiet drive down and the silence had only persisted long afterward, only briefly broken up by Craig speaking into the drive-thru when he ordered breakfast. Otherwise, they’d been pretty uncomfortably speechless. 

But that was what happened when you took a boy who kept his thoughts on the inside and a boy who was too paranoid to convey what went on inside his head and threw them into the same space. It was signing up for awkwardness, and expecting anything else warranted an eye roll.

Tweek had lifted his knees to his chest and was cradling his coffee cup in between his bandage-plastered hands, his green eyes fixed on the floor beneath him. Craig just leaned against the driver’s side door, not letting his gaze linger too long on the passenger’s side for fear of freaking Tweek out. Eye contact seemed a possibility miles away, and their voices fell dormant.

None of this was going as Craig had envisioned. The film junkie locked away in the depths of his mind had dreamt of wild and larger-than-life escapades, of both of them defying death with every increasingly risk-filled action until it finally struck its mark in some replication of an adventure movie. It was all against the rational side of his mind, and he knew for certain that there’d be no skydiving or adventuring in the mountain town of South Park, but he  _ had _ hoped for something that sent a little more of a middle finger to death itself than wallowing in anxious silence in a McDonald’s parking lot.

He probably should have kept his expectations low.

Craig took another bite of his sausage biscuit and stared out the window, his free fingers rhythmically tapping against the steering wheel. He'd never really been the most talkative person,— in fact, among his friends, he was certainly the quietest— but he couldn't exactly name anyone who enjoyed the uncertain crevices that burrowed into the silent spaces. Tweek didn't seem too fond of all of the awkwardness either, but just like Craig, seemed to have no idea how to be rid of it. 

Communication was a pain in the ass, but it was a tragic necessity. No matter how much he'd rather smack his head against the wall than try and hold a conversation, no matter how much he hated trying to find the words to convey whatever plagued his mind, it was an unrelenting, irritating requirement.

So he might as well give it a shot.

“So,” he began. “...you doing alright?”

_ Fuck _ .

He flinched underneath the confused glance Tweek shot in his direction, resisting the urge to go ahead and cringe. He’d probably asked that same question at least twice since they left Tweak Bros, and the repetition definitely hadn’t been lost on either of them. 

“Yea?” Tweek said, tilting his head to the side and raising an eyebrow. “Dude, you’ve asked me that at least twice already. Are you okay? Oh shit, am I looking sick or something? I hadn’t bargained on dying  _ this _ soon, oh  _ god _ —“

“No, dude, you’re fine,” Craig cut in. “I’m just…not sure what to talk about, I guess.” With a little more embarrassment than he’d like to admit, he shifted in his seat, leaning his arm against the spine of the seat and balancing his head against his palm. “I suck at talking to people.”

“M-Me too,” Tweek said, and then the quiet descended again.

“...fuck.”

“You okay?”

“Yea, it’s just…” Craig sighed, his hand angling to hide his right eye beneath his fingers. “We haven’t talked to each other in years. There’s probably a lot of shit to discuss and I still don’t know where to start.”

Tweek fell silent again, his eyebrows furrowing in visible contemplation as he searched for something to say. His fingertips moved to one of the neon purple bandaids on his forearm, nails picking at the lining without even really realizing it. After a few seconds of pulling on the colorful bandages, his eyes lit up and he straightened in his seat, leaning forward slightly.

“Ask me a question,” he said.

“...What?” 

“A question. Any— doesn’t have to be about me. Your limit is twenty.”

“...Tweek, is this—“

“Twenty questions? Yup.” Tweek nodded vigorously. “I used to play it to pass time before finals postings when I did speech and debate. I’m really good at it. Anyway, shoot— see if you can figure out who I’m supposed to be before you hit twenty.”

“Alright,” Craig said, his expression dim. “So...are you a real person?”

It was a safe starter, a fair divider— drawing the line between fictional characters and people who truly left their fingerprints on this earth at one point or another. Jimmy had taught him that. Not in the context of time-passing games, of course, but for things like research papers and argumentative essays. If you started with a broad question that could still narrow things down, it spared you time and filler and set the point in motion.

You never wanted to start too narrow.

Tweek smiled slightly, as if he found some surge of pride in the strategic way Craig went about starting off their game. Craig wouldn’t doubt it, of course— if Tweek was really as good as he claimed, then seeing some familiarity or semblance to himself was bound to work out. “Yep.”

“Are you dead?”

“Yes.”

“Are you a chick?”

“Nope.”

“A dude?”

“Yes.”

Craig hesitated for a moment. “...a scientist?”

“Noooo.”

“Historical figure?”

“Duh.”

“War hero?”

“Sort of.”

“President?”

“No.”

“Director?”

“Nope! Jesus, dude, you kind of suck at this game. Where’d you get ‘director’ from?”

“ _ Rude _ . ...inventor?”

“ _ Yes _ , there.”

“Edison?”

“No.”

“The guy who invented the phone?”

“Alexander Graham Bell? No.”

“Shit. Were you alive in the 1800s?”

“No.”

“1700s?”

“Noooo.”

“1900s.”

“Yes.”

“Part of the Navy?”

“No.”

“Air Force?”

“Yes.”

“...Lindbergh?”

“Ohhh, what do you know, you got it!” Tweek mockingly clapped, his expression morphing into a teasing smile. “Only took you...eighteen questions?”

“It was a wild guess. I didn’t even know that Lindbergh  _ was _ an inventor.”

“Co-inventor of the perfusion pump.”

“What the fuck is that?”

“It’s basically a device that can sustain life a little longer than what would normally be possible.”

“Dude, how do you know this shit?” Craig asked, the monotone of his voice doing little to hide that sliver of awe that loomed beneath his words. 

“I did a research paper on him a while back for an AP class— it was like, a six page paper, too, so a lot of the stuff I wrote about was filler.” Tweek shrugged, reclining back against the car door. “I always really liked history. Anyway, my turn. Pick a person and let’s see how fast I guess it. Your score is eighteen, I just have to beat that.”

“Alright. Um…” Craig’s eyes flickered upward, his brow furrowing as he sifted through options. “...alright, shoot.”

“Are you a real person?” Tweek began, his voice an echo of just moments of repetitive questions before. The teasing in his gaze was gone, yielding to a new sense of seriousness and commitment that almost looked strange setting over his eyes. 

“Yea.”

“Are you a man?”

“Yea.”

“Ooh, there’s two— are you dead?”

“No.”

“Aha. Are you a scientist?”

“Yes.”

“Astrophysicist?”

Craig sighed. “Yes.”

“Neil DeGrasse Tyson?” Tweek practically chirped, triumph flashing in his eyes. 

“...yep.” Craig could feel his face burning, embarrassment washing over his face, softening the harshness of his features. 

“Ahaha, five questions. Not yet a new record, but still impressive.”

“Dude, I don’t remember you being this much of a little shit.” Craig said, the corners of his lips shifting slightly upward— a sentiment Tweek only returned, albeit with a brief moment taken to stick out his tongue. The mixture of pride and smugness on his face was almost endearing, especially considering the lack of malevolence behind the gesture. 

(Almost being the key word.)

“I don’t remember you having such a sensitive ego.”

“Touché.”

The sweet smile that graced Tweek’s countenance only lingered for a moment, though, quickly overwritten by a worried frown. His eyes flickered around, moving between the different surfaces of the car, unwilling to meet Craig’s. “...I didn’t actually offend you or anything, right?”

“Oh, uh, no, dude.” Craig responded, his hand rising to tug on one of the strings of his chullo. “So. How’d you manage to guess so quickly?”

“A mix of experience and conjecture— besides, you’re kind of transparent, man. Galaxy hoodie, galaxy phone case...it’s not hard to guess that you like space.” Tweek said. “I figured it had to be a scientist of some kind, and astrophysicist just so happened to be a lucky guess. Neil DeGrasse Tyson is a pretty easy shot too.”

“Fair enough,” Craig said. “...but yea, space is really cool. I wish there had been astronomy classes when we were in school.”

“They could barely afford the programs they had, though,” Tweek sighed. “What do you like so much about space, though? I always thought it was scary as hell. There’s just...so much of it. So much stuff in the universe.”

“That’s why I like it so much— everything up there is so huge and long-lasting. It just makes all of the bullshit we deal with seem insignificant.”

“Th-that’s a way to look at it.”

“Yea. We’re all just...temporary, and I guess there’s just something kind of relaxing about that to me.” Craig couldn’t help the smile that started blooming across his face. “Fun fact— humans are composed of the same elements as stardust, and we share ninety-seven percent of the atoms. So I guess we’re all just kind of… part of the galaxy.”

When Craig glanced back over in Tweek’s direction, the latter’s bright green eyes had gone wide with what could only be assumed to be awe. “That’s… actually really amazing.”

“Right?”

“They all seem so far away.”

“But we’re all part of the stars ourselves,” Craig said. “Anyway. Tell me something interesting now.”

“Wh-what?” Tweek blinked, confusion settling over his expression.

“I gave you a fact, now I want to hear one from you. It’s a fair trade, Tweek,” Craig said, eyeing Tweek expectantly. “That can be our currency— if I tell you something cool about space, you have to tell me something cool about history. If I tell you something about me, you have to tell me something about you. Fair?”

Tweek hesitated, his whole aura radiating uncertainty and anxiety as he turned over the proposition in his brain. After only a few moments, however, the tentativeness slipped away and he managed a brief nod. “I-I guess it works. Then there's no shot at blackmail for either of us.”

“Dude, I'm not gonna blackmail you.”

“Better safe than sorry.” 

“Fair enough,” Craig bit back the mild exasperation in his tone, hoping it didn't overlap with the typical flatness of his voice. “So…”

“A history fact, yea, I know.” Tweek took a few seconds to flip through some imaginary index, picking through facts before he straightened again. “Only twenty-two countries in the entire world have not been invaded by Great Britain.”

“What the fuck, seriously?”

“Yea, man. They're worse than the aliens.”

“No shit… seriously? Only twenty-two?”

“I'm not lying, dude, look it up,” Tweek said, and Craig could hardly believe the seriousness of his expression. He took another sip of his coffee, albeit a brief and unenthusiastic one, and his expression quickly darkened. “Alright, fact about me: I actually hate coffee. With a passion.” 

He set the quarter-empty cup into one of the cup holders, clearly not keen on going back for any more, and reclined back with folded arms. In the wake of his newly empty grasp, his fingers automatically chased after the hemming on his sleeves and the bandaids haphazardly slapped across his arms, immediately finding something to fill the void. He seemed withdrawn and remote, his body curled up in the passenger seat but his mind on the run. 

Craig just blinked absently, unable to conceal the confusion in his face. “...so why do you drink it if you hate it?” 

He’d call himself out on the irony sometime later.

“Well, if you’d been hooked on it since you were a kid, you’d probably get it,” Tweek said. There was something almost jaded in his eyes for a moment, and even when it disappeared beneath a well-constructed veneer of indifference, Craig knew what he’d seen. “My parents have pushed me to drink this stuff since first grade or so— I hate it, but I can’t ditch it. I can’t go too long without drinking coffee either or else I’ll just make myself sick. It sucks, but there’s nothing I can really do about it. Every time I try to swap over to something like tea or whatever, I just end up drinking coffee again.” He sighed again and glanced to the side, his eyes flickering from the floor, to the inactive screen between the radio dials, to anywhere and everywhere but Craig’s gaze. “This stuff doesn’t really taste the same, though, so there’s that. Anyway, what about your fact?”

“Oh,” Craig scratched at the back of his neck for a moment, trying to chase away the concerns he could feel tugging at his mind and instead pursue whatever random scraps of information about himself he could. He could already feel a spark of embarrassment shoot through his spine as he turned over all of the random facts he could— everything about him was pretty...well, standard. Boring, even.

Typically, he wouldn’t complain— boring was his speed on every other day. Every other day  _ but _ today, he’d talk about his science knowledge or about the video games he’d poured hours of gameplay into, but now there seemed almost something bland about those little factors. It was as if he’d found some blossom of wildness in his garden of monotony, and now anything besides it was dissatisfying.

He didn’t know why his sense of shame decided to strike now and over something stupid, but it made him want to kick himself.

“Well, uh… I’m half-Peruvian,” he said finally, at least content with discussing that. Even if it rekindled some nasty memories of startlingly vast forestry and musty temples. Even if it brought back some of his childhood hatred for Stan Marsh and his friends, despite how three of the four had actually become tolerable as elementary school passed. “Apparently I’ve got some Incan ancestry, too.”

“Really? Th-that’s pretty cool!” Tweek exclaimed, all of the resentment that had clouded his eyes having melted away. “Wait, I heard about parts of the Incan thing— didn’t it have something to do with all of the huge guinea pigs that started attacking when we were in, like, fourth grade?”

“Yep,” Craig sighed, unable to prevent all of the memories of walking miles through heavy rain and overgrown jungle terrain from resurfacing, the glimmer of torchlight and the shock of blue sparks burning bright amidst it all. His legs had never undergone so much agony in such a short period of time, and he’d vowed to never walk anywhere again. It hadn’t worked out, considering they all lived in a small town where any of the necessities were within walking distance, but he committed to it for a little while. “That’s what I get for going along with one of Cartman’s schemes.”

“Ugh, Stan and his friends dragged you into it? No wonder,” Tweek groaned. “They’re such assholes! I think every moment I spent around them took a whole ten years off my lifespan.”

“They kind of chilled out during middle school, though,” Craig said. “At least, Stan, Kyle, and Kenny did. The day Eric Cartman chills the fuck out is the day Jupiter becomes inhabitable.”

“No way.”

“I’m serious, dude. They’d actually sometimes drop by Token’s and we’d all have video game marathons. Kenny kicked ass at Smash Bros.”

“Huh,” Tweek mumbled, his expression regaining that solemn shadow all over again, albeit nostalgically. He went right back to staring at the floor, avoiding eye contact all over again. A small part of Craig just wanted to go ahead and ask him why he seemed so reluctant to meet his eyes, but he knew it was better to just keep his mouth shut. “I haven't played video games in a long time, actually. Not since the console wars bullshit.”

“Oh god, I remember that,” Craig rolled his eyes at the memory of all of the drama, adopted straight from an airing on HBO. It had gone from a disagreement on one console versus another into a full blown chain of dramatized betrayals and warfare, and after just a day of dealing with it, most of them were tired and hoping that Black Friday would just cease to exist. He couldn't say with confidence that a twenty-five dollar Xbox One was entirely worth all of the stress. “...didn't we spearhead that shit?”

“...we did. What the fuck, that whole mess was on the both of us.”

“I barely even remember how it all started.” 

“I think I repressed the memories.”

“As most of us did.”

“I think any therapist in this town could strike a million within a month,” Tweek said, not entirely sardonically. “A whole class-full of kids who've been traumatized by the general goings-on in South Park, Colorado.”

“From a one-day apocalypse to an imaginary one,” Craig echoed, although thinking of the second occurrence left an irreparably bitter taste in his mouth. When Token had shown up to school after being gone for a week with his arm in a sling and exhaustion in his eyes, offhandedly mentioning that Cartman had  _ actually fucking shot him _ , it had taken all of the rationality and distance within him to not launch himself at Cartman. Craig prided himself on maintaining jurisdiction over his emotions, and he knew that pissing off Eric Cartman could be a slow and hellish death sentence, but he hadn't been able to help the extra edge in his gaze whenever it landed on their class’s resident king of assholes. 

Craig Tucker was a lot of things— he was withdrawn, he was sensible, and he was intelligent. His passion in life was spelled out with stars and punctuated by planets, all of his aspirations as celestial and wild and incomprehensible as space itself. He kept his emotions in tightly-wound chains and his heart in his ribcage instead of his sleeve. He was largely non-confrontational and knew where to toe the line of compromise, but if one thing could ever inhibit any of that, it was his loyalty.

He'd give his friends shit for any of the stupid things they went through, but he knew where the line was drawn. He knew the difference between embarrassment and heartbreak— between Clyde making a fool of himself in front of Bebe and him calling in the middle of the night because of nightmares about his mom, between Jimmy realizing he’d accidentally joined a gang and him recovering from the sting of betrayal and a beatdown, between Token accidentally having to earn his way back from Los Angeles and him  _ actually getting shot _ . 

...Perhaps Tweek wasn’t wrong in saying that most of the kids in South Park needed therapy.

“So, uh… that was the last time you touched a video game console? Fourth grade?” He managed, hoping to whoever was up there that the weight of his thoughts didn’t drag down his tone. Suddenly he was struggling to keep eye contact as well, his steeliness unraveled by the sting of forlorn memories, and he couldn’t help but wonder if the same thing was going on in Tweek’s head as well.

“Yea,” Tweek said. “I got my Xbox One, played BioShock, Tomb Raider, and GTA 5 on it a couple of times, and then ended up never touching it again because of work and school.”

Craig’s brow furrowed at that. “You didn’t have the spare time to pick it up again?”

“N-no, I didn’t.” A certain edge of defensiveness suddenly cut its way into Tweek’s voice, a halfhearted verbal shield against imaginary ammunition. His whole body seemed to tense, a consequence of implications Craig couldn’t even see. “I had work and school and no time in between. It’s why I had to cut therapy and theater and speech and debate out of my life as well.”

“That sucks,” Craig said, unsure of any other way to respond. Concern began its unwelcome creeping right back up his spine again, the same way it had just a few moments before he’d dragged Tweek away from his work. He didn’t like the feeling— the sharpness of intense emotion. All it made him want to do was kick away the tugging feelings and bury them right back where they belonged, in the back of his brain where they’d seldom escape. “...are you ok—“

“I’m fine.” Tweek said back, his barricades twice as threatening. “I was fine then and I am fine now. Nothing to worry about and nothing to discuss. I gave up what I gave up for a reason. I spent a lot of time working and it helped someone in the end so I’m happy.”

It wasn’t like Craig would say anything about it, but the faint shrillness Tweek’s voice adopted whenever he felt threatened or worried or uncertain certainly implicated otherwise.

“...well, dude, if you want to play some video games, I still have my Xbox,” he offered instead. “I don’t have a whole lot of new shit, but I’ve got some pretty decent games. We could just... chill at my house for a bit, if you’d like.”

For a moment, they lapsed back into silence, but it wasn’t suffocating and uncomfortable and panic-inducing this time. It was contemplative, every second passed spent with Tweek pondering his answer and doubtlessly analyzing the ramifications of yes and no alike. Craig could see it in his face— the way his eyebrows furrowed, the momentary widening of his eyes whenever an adverse possibility crossed his mind, how slightly coffee-stained teeth lightly bit down on his lower lip. 

He didn’t even realize how long he’d let himself study Tweek’s expression before their eyes locked into contact and the blonde gingerly nodded, not a flicker of hesitation in the motion. 

“Sure,” he said, and Craig shifted to turn the key back into ignition.

—

The ride back into South Park had been noticeably less stifled by silence, instead peppered by fragments of conversations and more chains of fact-exchanging, each new addition leaving them on equal ground. Craig traded his knowledge of the universe beyond Earth and random facts about himself he’d picked to discuss (like the fact that he’d wanted to grow up and be a father to guinea pigs instead of children, or how he tended to prefer film versions to books), and in return, Tweek rambled off obscure pieces of history and fragments of his own story.

In truth, Tweek was at least a thousand times as interesting as Craig, and it manifested in all of the little facts and stories he talked about— how he could read at 876 words per minute and skim at 1400, how he pieced together words by tearing them apart, how he’d qualified to Nationals his freshman year in some speech and debate event acronym Craig didn’t know about, how he'd given it up for the sake of his family’s budget, how he had entire musicals memorized and used to fantasize about landing his dream roles during work. Craig had hummed a few notes of “On My Own” and Tweek had barely caught himself when he started to softly sing along.

He had a really nice voice— gentle and light and nice to listen to, abandoning all of the stammering that came when he spoke too fast and tripped over his own words. Craig had to resist the urge to tell him to just keep singing when Tweek caught himself and stopped.

It was around 7:45 when they pulled into the Tucker household’s driveway. By this point, the sun loomed just slightly over the horizon, rays faintly warm and distant, filtering through the thick wisps of clouds that entailed potential snowfall. The world was caught between the remnants of nightfall and the ascent of day, everything dull and dim and muted. The air hadn't changed in the least, still relentlessly cold in the northern staple, in the way that crept beneath your jacket and the only power you had was to ignore it and find warmth as fast as you could.

Craig knew it was going to be awkward as hell to walk back inside the house he'd bid farewell to just a few hours earlier, regardless of how he handled it. He could just treat it all like he'd never said goodbye in the first place, shrug it off and hear no questions asked. He could just mutter something about “changing his mind” or just admit that there weren't really many ways to live life to the fullest in the town of South Park, Colorado. No matter which way he sliced it, he was stuck with the reality that the whole of his return, no matter how brisk, would be teeming with fragments of awkwardness. 

That was just one of many things that he couldn't change.

His car fell still with another flick of his keys, the low buzzing of the engine deflating into silence, and Craig slid out of the driver’s seat and out into the early-morning crispness, Tweek following suit. A double tap to the button on the key fob let him know that the car was locked, and as soon as he finished screwing with the lock on the front door, he slipped the key ring back into its usual place on one of his belt loops and sauntered right inside.

“I’m home,” he half-yelled, a small part of him hoping no one heard. His hopes were shattered by the faint clattering of silverware against ceramic just past the archway to the kitchen, followed quickly by the sound of bare footsteps against the wooden floorboards.

“I knew your introverted ass wasn’t going to last a whole day outside of your room,” Tricia chirped as she appeared beneath the archway, her lips curved into that smug-ass smirk. Her hair was haphazardly twisted into a ponytail, her smaller frame dwarved by the ratty hoodie she always wore to bed, and she looked infinitely more awake than she needed to. A bowl of cereal was balanced in her hand, devoid of milk— just as she liked it. A large part of Craig was certain she did it out of spite.

“Ha ha,” Craig just fixed a half-assed death glare in her direction. “Did you bet with What’s-His-Name over that too?”

“Nope,” Tricia said. “The Ike and Ruby Gamble only bets over things we actually disagree on. It is universally known that the rare alien, Craigory, is a loser.”

“At least I don’t parade around using a fake name to impress people.”

“It’s my middle name so it’s not  _ fake _ .”

“Keep telling yourself that.”

“It’s on my birth certificate,” Tricia said, and before Craig could conjure up another comeback, she swiveled on her heels to face Tweek. Only a few seconds of her looking him up and down passed before she spoke again, clearly eager to prevent Craig from cutting in. “Who’s this?”

“I’m Tweek Tweak,” he said, habitually extending his hand for her to shake, polite as ever.

Tricia blinked for a moment, clearly confused, before she cracked a smile. “Dude, no need for formal shit. In case it’s not obvious, we Tuckers are a casual brand. The name is  _ Ruby _ , but my brother calls me Tricia.” She snickered before shoveling a spoonful of dry Captain Crunch in her mouth. “So Tweek. How much is my brother paying you to hang out with him?”

Craig could already feel himself cringing. He was already beginning to regret opening his mouth when he came in through the door, even if silence wouldn’t have changed things. “Patricia, leave Tweek alo—“

“Five bucks an hour,” Tweek chimed, an almost uncharacteristically impish look in his eyes. He’d reclaimed the teasing smugness from earlier, that little flicker of sarcasm and harmless mocking making a prevalent resurgence. “Do you think he should up it to ten?”

“Oh fuck yea,” Tricia said, her voice muffled by the cereal puffing up her right cheek like a hamster’s. “I’d ask for a hundred, personally. Charge him five extra every time you have to listen to him talk about space.”

“You’re both  _ such _ comedians,” Craig rolled his eyes and hoped that his sarcasm would hide the pang of self-consciousness the whole exchange summoned up in him. He knew they were both kidding, and hell, Tricia made fun of him for this shit all the time. As to why it was bugging him now, he was clueless— but he wanted that nagging feeling to just vault itself straight back into hell where it belonged.

Impending death had some weird side effects.

“I’m the next John Mulaney,” Tricia chuckled. “Anyway, what made you come home?” Teal eyes shifted their focus from Tweek to Craig, locking into eye contact and lingering. There was a question in her irises that Craig couldn’t quite decipher— some skeptical undertone that didn’t accentuate her voice, instead manifesting in the rings of light in her eyes. 

“We’re gonna play some video games,” he said nonchalantly, acting as if he hadn’t caught on to her silent inquiry. He knew it was a thin façade, that pretending not to catch on to a means of communication they’d used through years of being siblings was going to bite him in the ass later, but he’d pay the price when he was on his way out. 

“Don’t screw with my Xbox Live account.”

“It’s my Xbox, I paid for it, so I’ll mess with your Xbox Live account if I damn well please.”

“Dick,” she spat, but there was no venom in her voice. She simply smiled and finished off the last of her Captain Crunch, before turning on her heels again and heading back into the kitchen, probably in search of more. “I’ll be up to harass you later. If you get bored, Tweek, just let me know and then you can chill with the cooler Tucker.” And with that last lighthearted jab, she disappeared.

“C’mon, dude, let’s go play some COD or some shit,” Craig said, and the two of them ascended the staircase as quietly as they could.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...Sassy Tweek is the best Tweek of all.
> 
> I'm very fond of what I have planned for these next chapters, so I hopefully shan't take as long to write them! Thank you to all who've left kudos and comments, it really means a lot to me~ <3 Oh, and Happy Valentine's, I suppose?

**Author's Note:**

> I hope that wasn't too much of a trainwreck, ahaha-- thank you very much for reading. I'll try and have the second chapter published as soon as possible~


End file.
